


Worry Stones

by escriveine



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Mission Fic, Off-World, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 15:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17869955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escriveine/pseuds/escriveine
Summary: When the local political leader injects an obligatory, unspecified ceremony into the schedule, John believes that a certain level of concern is warranted.





	Worry Stones

**Author's Note:**

> _Many_ thanks to my lovely beta reader gutterandthestars!
> 
> Inspired by a [post on Dreamwidth](https://melagan.dreamwidth.org/480641.html) by melagan and this [Stone Balance Art](https://www.gravityglue.com/new-way-thinking/) by Michael Grab:

John spends a wistful moment in a daydream, the same one he always has when he’s involved in treaty negotiations on an alien planet. It’s too simple, too _boring,_ to be called a fantasy, but all the same, he can’t stop thinking about it. It goes like this: the planetary representatives are overcome by a fit of common sense and agree to good terms; everyone around the table stands up for a round of high-fives (or fist-bumps, he’s not picky); his team leaves immediately and goes straight back to Atlantis without incident. That’s it really. Simple and gloriously boring.

A couple of hours pass as Teyla patiently hammers out the details with the Ninvorix council. Besides having a real knack for diplomacy, she’s known and worked with these people for ages on behalf of Athos. John is unspeakably happy to let her handle the talking and the protocol and the talking, leaving him to act as support and security. So he maintains his most amiable thousand-yard stare and periodically surveys the room for trouble while listening to Teyla be awesomely ambassadorial.

Soon enough, everyone is smiling and congratulating each other on concluding the deal and just _once_ John wants to live the very dull dream. No fuss, no big deal, and definitely _—No such luck._ The headwoman, Jamiya, is inviting everyone to celebrate the new alliance at a banquet this evening, preceded by a special ceremony conducted by their shaman. 

Warning klaxons start sounding in John’s head. 

Now, John likes to think he’s a pretty level-headed guy, not someone who jumps to conclusions or panics for no reason. But he’s read enough off-world mission reports from two galaxies to know that the fastest way for a team to be seriously endangered is to violate religious rules, even unintentionally. The things SGC personnel have had to do to either avoid or atone for infractions range from harmless to comical to nightmarish. No one on John’s team needs any more nightmares.

So when the local political leader injects an obligatory, unspecified religious ritual into the schedule, John believes that a certain level of concern is warranted. Leaning back in his chair, he resists the urge to wrap a hand around the exposed back of his neck, and gets back to surveillance.

He notes that Teyla appears entirely unruffled as she graciously accepts the headwoman’s invitation. Even though Teyla could graciously accept an assortment of candied bugs — and on one memorable occasion actually _had_ — she wasn’t _also_ surreptitiously kicking John’s ankle under the table or making excuses for the team to immediately regroup outside the meeting hall. Which gives him the impression that she’s familiar with the ceremony and either thinks it’s innocuous or that they have time to get out of earshot before discussing it further.

None of the Ninvorix at the table look squirrelly, so John turns to catch Ronon’s eye. The big guy just shrugs one laconic shoulder, so he hasn’t noticed anything problematic from his side of the room or out the window. And John can see for himself that there’s no slowly tightening perimeter of nonchalant yet suspiciously well-armed guards. That’s the sort of thing you only have to experience once to develop a tic.

The other two members of the team are back at the Jumper. Lt Mason is standing guard against scientist rustlers while Rodney takes additional readings to check for Genii-style duplicity, yet another thing he was determined never to be surprised by again. The comms have been quiet since Mason’s last check-in, which was on time and all clear. 

Taken together, the evidence suggests the situation isn’t teetering on the brink of disaster.

Still, it’s a relief to leave the longhouse, get out into the early afternoon sun and breathe in the wide open spaces as they amble back to the Jumper. 

John chews on his lip while he casts about for some way to ask Teyla about the nightmare quotient of the ceremony without sounding overly jumpy. At the same time, he’s also wondering if he can wheedle her into breaking the news to Rodney that _everyone_ is expected to attend.

John’s still lost in thought when Teyla says, “Colonel, I think everyone, including Doctor McKay, will find the ceremony inoffensive in both content and length.”  

How did she _do_ that?  With one sentence she managed to convey that she understood his concerns, and that she had reason to think this thing wouldn’t be overtly religious, or anything demeaning, painful, weird, or dangerous. They were damn lucky Teyla was on their side.

And given her assessment… Maybe he can ratchet down the hypervigilance a little.

“Well, hopefully that means we won’t have to go back for a round of apologies afterwards, then. Last time it cost us an extra two days of negotiation and… what was it?”

“A proven breeding pair of goats.”  Teyla glances over, eyes droll and dancing under dark lashes while smiling her usual serene smile.

“Right,” he chuckles. “I still don’t know how you pulled that off.”

“That is but one of many skills I cultivated as the Athosian trade representative.”  Meaning no way was she sharing her, ha, trade secrets. John thought her walk might have just a hint of well-earned bounce to it, now.

Ronon shakes his head a little. “Six hours on stone benches. I thought my butt died. They should’ve just said we could give them goats instead.”

John chokes as he manfully struggles not to laugh. “Well, this time we won’t need rescue goats _or_ seat cushions, right?”

Teyla mostly keeps a straight face, but has to clear her throat before replying,  “Indeed not. Even the children are quite fascinated and the whole ceremony lasts no more than half an hour.”

Ronon barks out a short laugh. “That’s more like it!  And Sheppard…” John knows what’s coming, but he likes to encourage Ronon to talk things out. “No singing, no dancing, no costumes. Not for me.”

John nods. “Yeah, buddy, not for any of us.”  Not after the so-called ‘renewal ceremony’ on M8R-231. Luckily, it turned out to be more awkward than horrifying. He shakes his head, then turns back to Teyla. “Hey, maybe leave out the bit about children unless McKay _really_ drags his feet, yeah?”

She just lifts an elegant eyebrow.

* * *

When they reach the Jumper, Lt Mason is standing watch, relaxed but alert, while McKay works inside, poking at a tablet hooked up to an open wall panel.

McKay squints up at Teyla and John as they walk from the sunshine into the relatively dim hold. “Oh, hey, that was faster than usual.”

John’s just gonna fly casual back here by the equipment storage area, nothing to see, he’s not dodging anything, he just wants to check on some… stuff.

There’s no way Teyla’s fooled, but she smoothly steps up anyway. “The headwoman, Jamiya, was most agreeable. In fact, there will be a feast tonight. With ale.”  She puts just the slightest emphasis on the words promising tasty treats.

“Hmmm, that could be nice.” Rodney’s back to looking at the screen in his hands, so maybe he won’t—“Wait, did you say _tonight_?  Like ‘stay here and let Zelenka find creative new ways to sink Atlantis while Rodney’s stuck off-world’?”

“I believe it will be more along the lines of staying to witness a fascinating demonstration of physics principles, but if you feel it necessary to rush back to Atlantis on an empty stomach…”

Right on cue, Rodney’s stomach growls. John looks out the back of the Jumper, just to check on the status of Ronon and Mason, not at all to hide a smile. Oh, there they are, proceeding along the perimeter.

“Well, maybe not run _right_ back, I did leave strict instructions about things not to be touched. With signs.” John guesstimates there’ll be a 3-count pause for effect, and…  “What, um, what demonstration?”  Rodney’s trying to play it cool and missing by a country mile. 

Gosh, look at the scrubby grass waving in the slight breeze, that would be a perfect hiding spot for, um, glowy space bugs, so John should keep an eye on that. And he’s not grinning, he’s baring his teeth at potential threats. Very menacing, grrr.

“I am uncertain of how best to describe it. One of the Ninvorix creates structures composed of dissimilar elements poised in… ephemeral equilibrium. It is most amazing to behold.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”  She sounds completely sincere, not just generically soothing, and now John’s actually interested, too.

“I should take video. I bet I could model how the different shapes and materials of—”

“Rodney.” How does Teyla make interrupting someone sound gentle, even affectionate? “I believe it is meant to be experienced, rather than observed for modeling. If we leave now, we should arrive with enough time to sample the ale beforehand.”

“Oh, right, well.”  John risks a look and sees Teyla standing with one hand on Rodney’s shoulder as he begins stowing his electronic doodads. “Just checking here, but it’s actually an official, mandatory _ceremony,_ isn’t it?”

To be fair, Rodney’s seen enough of these things go wrong to justify that wary tone.

“Yes. However, it is a brief, pleasant one, just as I described.”

Rodney’s halfway inside an open panel when John hears him ask in a small, muffled, and quite un-Rodney-like voice, “Teyla, did you lose the bet?  About having to tell me, I mean. Because I know I’m, well, _difficult,_ so people hate telling me about things like this, but, um, I can tell that you went to some effort to be nice — really nice — and make it sound interesting to me, and even, um, even if it isn’t, well, I appreciate it.”

_Oh, hell,_ John thinks, feeling something in his chest go tight. He’s pretty sure he’s an enormous jerk, but he has absolutely no idea how to fix it, or even what to do next. 

“Rodney, there was no wager or order or anything other than friendship motivating me, I promise you,” she says in a low voice.

Teyla is a being of grace and beauty and John is going to take _lessons_ from her. Or maybe just let her do all the talking, forever. He could go either way, really.

Time for a major diversionary gambit. John walks heavily toward the front of the Jumper, calling out, “Hey, you guys ready to head back?  Mason’s got the remote, so we’re good to go whenever.”

An irritated voice snaps from the depths of the panel, “No, Mason does _not_ have the remote, _I_ have the remote, don’t you pay attention?”  Rodney emerges long enough to toss a scowl John’s way.  _“And_ I’d like to finish securing my gear before traipsing off, thank you very much.”

That probably counts as a operational success, so John turns around and totally does _not_ flee into the warm afternoon. He’s just advancing in a different direction.

* * *

It’s peaceful down on the stony bank of the river where the sound of the water is a soothing, slow background babble. They’ve each been allowed to have a mug of beer — somehow Ronon’s got two — and they’re all looking curiously at the rocks laid out on a trestle table near the water’s edge. There are stones smooth enough to have spent the last century at the bottom of the river and others that are sharp-edged, as if they just broke away from their home strata. 

A young man in casual clothes and great big boots comes up to the table and says they can handle the rocks. He reaches out and picks one up, turning it over in long, steady fingers until it lays just so in the hollow of his hand, then he sets it back down with a smile. Without saying another word, he walks a little ways upstream to a spot where the water laps over his feet and just stands there, apparently content to watch the river flowing past.

People from the village are arriving now, but no one else comes up to the table. John touches a few of the rocks, surprised at how different even the smooth-looking ones feel. One’s almost slick despite being perfectly dry, while another is covered in nearly invisible bursts of texture like ridges of unmelting frost.

There’s this one, though, that John finds really appealing, a dark green and brown rock bigger than his fist, its irregular shape a series of contours that somehow flow from one to the other, as if all the water that splashed and swirled over its edges imbued the stone with its own essential nature, transforming rather than abrading. For all that, it’s still definitely a rock, resting with a solid, comfortable weight in his hand.

Ronon’s holding up a stone that looks like a small, flattened ball of sandy dough until it catches the light. Then it throws off these tiny, flicker-fast gleams too fleeting to focus on individually, but together they create a composite impression of brilliance. Ronon looks amazed, like he didn’t know rocks could sparkle, and when he laughs, he’s dappled with reflected sun.

Rodney is busily engaged, mumbling to himself like he does when conducting an experiment back in his lab. Each specimen gets picked up and methodically examined like it’s a marvel or maybe holds the key to an age-old mystery. If anyone could unlock the secrets of the universe with a river rock, it’d be Rodney. He’s clearly in his happy place, focussed on finding the answer to a question only he knows. When he grins up at John, waggling an orangey oblong rock held in the fingertips of one hand, Rodney looks positively mischievous for no obvious reason. John grins back, waving the greeny-brown one he’s still holding, and that thing in John’s chest finally eases up a little.

Lt Mason — _Elsie_ , John remembers, _but she says it sounds too ‘dairy farmer’ (whatever the hell that means) so even off-duty it’s ‘Mason’ —_ is standing off to one side, juggling a few small rocks. This little wispy-haired kid comes up and Mason gets him to throw her another one. He brushes it off carefully first and his toss is so tentative it almost doesn’t reach, but she leans forward and seamlessly adds it into the pattern. Nice.

Teyla is watching over everything with an indulgent eye as she chats with folks, sips her beer, and even admires a pet tortoise offered for her inspection; she’s every inch the amiable diplomat. When the headwoman arrives, there’s no particular fuss or fanfare, but Teyla immediately turns to greet her.

John does his best to _not_ put on his command face, to stay loose and let the river sounds smooth down the prickling feeling of imminent ceremony/doom. He reminds himself that there are no altars, no sentries, and, best of all, not so much as a single ceremonial knife anywhere. Plus he’s got a nice, solid rock right here in his hand in case things go sideways. Not that they will. He might be squeezing the nice rock a little tighter than strictly necessary, but everything will be fine. Just fine.

John blows out a breath and brings the stone up in front of him, holding it with both hands so it’s clear that he’s _carrying_ the thing, not wielding it. He gives in to the strange urge he has to run one thumb over its curving surfaces. It’s kinda soothing. 

Maybe he can go interact with other humans again without kicking off an interplanetary incident that can only be resolved by procuring livestock. Just in time, too, because here are Jamiya and Teyla. He lifts his rock towards them as a greeting.

The older woman smiles and briefly lays her hand overtop the proffered stone and John’s fingers. He’s pleased that he doesn’t flinch at all. Jamiya confides that it’s a lovely stone with her favorite shades of green. John smiles back and realizes that she’s not just mouthing a diplomatic pleasantry; Jamiya’s tunic (or whatever it’s called) is dyed in the same rippling greens and hints of brown. He feels vaguely gratified, especially when Teyla nods in that approving way. 

John would swear that he used to be cooler than this. Better at dealing with people, too. Could be all those concussions were taking their cumulative toll. Or, hey, maybe that stupid iratus bug had sapped his charisma along with an unhealthy percentage of his blood. John makes a mental note to _never_ mention this to _anyone_ and resumes petting his rock.

He sees that folks have gathered around the trestle table without having to be summoned: his team, the headwoman, and five other Ninvorix he recognizes from the meeting earlier today. The young man rejoins them, carrying a wide, shallow basket with both hands.

Jamiya addresses the group, sounding official, but not officious. “We have been exceedingly fortunate in these many years of peace to live on the shoulders of the Ninvorix, building a community that thrives in times of plenty and is generous in times of hardship. I’m not a religious woman, but I am a grateful one, which is why I’ve asked you all to join us here to celebrate this most promising friendship between our two peoples.”

She gestured at the young man with the basket. “Mikkel serves as what has traditionally been known as a ‘shaman’ for our community, though I believe he might characterize what he does as more of an active fusion of physics and philosophy. His demonstrations are meditations on energy in its many states, flowing as much through time as our hands, meant not to memorialize, but to journey, from intention to cooperative equilibrium to memory. Where physical forms dissipate, their attendant energy endures.”

Mikkel is calmly looking at the basket as though he isn’t the subject of inquisitive stares.

John rather feels that the whole lack of actual religion aspect should have been clarified much earlier. As a courtesy to the clueless off-worlders, if nothing else.

“Now, this is not a moment for words, but participation!  Everyone please choose a stone — any one you like, for whatever reason — and lay it in the basket Mikkel is holding. And, of course, it need not be the stone you’re holding right now, or even one from the table.”

John smiles because he was pretty sure Rodney was about to ask one or both of those questions, just to make sure he understood the parameters of the situation. Sure enough, Rodney’s closing his mouth and nodding down at the rock he’s holding. Classic.

The locals are leaning in around the table, checking out the stones and making their selections. There’s a hint of expectation in the air, but no solemnity, no urgency. 

Mason’s huddled with the kids who were watching her juggle earlier, apparently letting them help choose which rock she’ll put in the basket. Ronon goes over to Mikkel and says, “Check it,” as he jiggles his rock in a sunbeam. The two men exchange grins as Ronon hands over his prize.

Teyla pulls a wide stone out of one of her vest pockets and John wonders if it might be a memento from Athos. Thinking he might be intruding on a personal moment, he looks away and finds Rodney standing right next to him. John lifts his rock at Rodney, since that worked out pretty well the last time, with Jamiya.

“Good rock,” Rodney allows, but he’s wearing that crooked smile.

“Yours, too,” John admits, letting his own half-grin emerge. And it _is_ a good rock, big and smooth, shaped like a comma, or fanciful guitar pick. Solid, like Rodney, with that unexpected twist that makes it a better fit, somehow.

Then they’re trading stones like two boys showing off new Matchbox cars, proud of their discoveries, but a little shy in case they’re accidentally not as cool as advertised. Rodney holds up John’s greeny-brown and turns it over and around, definitely taking its measure. It’s enormously fun to watch Rodney investigating something new, the way his whole face lights up with innocent wonder.

Whoops, John’s supposed to be checking out Rodney’s stone—um, looking at the rock Rodney handed him, not watching his investigations and happy blue eyes, and, wait, what?  Oh-kay, time to look at the heavy thing he’s totally _not_ gonna drop on his own foot because he got distracted. Jeez.  _Used to be cooler,_ he silently grouses.

Rodney bumps Johns shoulder with his own. “Hey, Teyla’s _looking_ at us.”

“I think we’re holding up the works, buddy.”  Conspiratorial smirks flash across both their faces, then they’re heading over to Mikkel, trying to look like serious professionals that you could trust with dangerous things like rocks. John really hopes they can pull this off, because Teyla is an absolute terror when she does that disapproving eyebrow thing. He’d take bantos training over that any day. 

They manage to put the rocks into the basket without bursting into inappropriate laughter or accidentally falling into the river. See?  Serious professionals.

Mikkel takes the laden basket out into the river and submerges the whole thing next to a stony shelf that’s just barely visible above the undulating water. He perches on one side of the ledge and runs his hands over the wet surface in front of him, like he’s introducing himself to it, or letting the stone tell him something by touch. And maybe it has, because he leaves a hand draped over one particular curve as he reaches into the current and retrieves a wide triangular stone, brings it to the spot under his palm.

One rock resting on another shouldn’t be exciting, but there’s a sense of something unfolding here, not so much a beginning as a _continuation._ Mikkel fishes out another stone from the riverbed, positions it near, but not touching the one John can’t help but think of as the ‘waiting’ stone. The next rock creates a connection between them, but the angles look _improbable,_ like the stones are pushing away from their points of contact and reaching for Mikkel’s hand.

Another stone, another unexpected placement settling into a counter-intuitively balanced arrangement. John’s sure it shouldn’t work, that something is going to tip over or vibrate out of place and with a sad splash the whole structure will come crashing down on Mikkel’s fingers, leading the Ninvorix to conclude that the whole alliance is just as unstable and… Right, deep breath, the thingy is _meant_ to be temporary, remember? It’s not like if the rocks fall everybody dies. Deep breath.

John glances over at Rodney because if _he’s_ not worried, then physics might be on their side, after all. Rodney looks utterly fascinated, eyes wide as the big blue sky, and John would bet Rodney doesn’t realize he’s murmuring under his breath: _Amazing… countervailing vector forces… principles of—come on, that’s just unreal!… I wonder if…_

The disjointed phrases are music to John’s ears and he can feel tension drop away from his shoulders. 

Then there’s just the mellow burble of the river and Rodney’s occasional whispers and… magic. John lets himself be transported by it for these few minutes. Just as he’s wondering where ‘his’ stone is, Mikkel plucks it out of the river and sets it way, way over, right at the—no, _over_ the edge of a big rock that’s already looking overbalanced. John’s just going to hold his breath now, no reason. He counts the stones in the construct, just to take his mind off things, and John realizes there’s just one missing. Rodney’s. 

The awful potential irony of his stone being unable to maintain balance in a painstakingly constructed, if precarious, arrangement while simultaneously failing to support Rodney’s stone there is inescapable. Since it looks like the riverbank won’t obligingly swallow him up, John’s gonna have to gut this one out. Rodney’s looking slightly green, too, because nothing says ‘awesome’ like having your stone symbolically destroy an interplanetary alliance. John works up his best Han Solo-esque devil-may-care smile and nudges Rodney’s shoulder for solidarity.

Mikkel continues making magic, just as if two serious professionals weren’t sweating bullets over the implications of ceremonially stacked rocks. Right about the time that the sparkles at the edges of John’s vision insist it’s time to either breathe or pass out (which depending on what happens next might not be the worst thing ever), it happens:

                                 Mikkel releases the rocks.

                    Opens his arms wide like he’s hugging the whole landscape.

                                             Everything is impossibly, perfectly balanced.

       The sun is still shining, the river is still flowing, and the rocks are still standing.

John takes a deep breath, hears Rodney do the same. He’s giddy and strangely proud and _everything went right._

Leaning into Rodney’s shoulder with his own, John raised his chin riverwards, as if to say, _The rocks didn’t fall; everybody lives._

Rodney’s still watching the river splash around the gracefully immobile tower while he counter-leans, as if to say _Oh, thank God._

They don’t look at each other, but apparently they’re in balance, too, because they murmur in unison, “Good rocks.”

* * *

At the banquet, there’s no assigned seating splitting up the team, no arch conversation extolling alliance by marriage, and no long-winded speeches melting John’s brain. Which all makes a welcome change from how these things usually go. It might not be the embodiment of his daydream, but it’s asymptotically close.

John had almost forgotten that _avoiding_ disaster leaves him with a much better appetite than a daring escape or rescue does. It makes sense, though, because when a mission goes _that_ wrong, his next meal usually consists of bland, Infirmary-mandated foods like mashed not-potatoes and that weird red jello. Here there are three different kinds of spicy fish dishes, baskets of fresh bread, and a selection of non-compulsory vegetables. Even better, there are two wholly acceptable varieties of beer; John knows this because he’s sampled both. He snags another mug of the one he thinks tastes more Canadian and carries it back to where Rodney is polishing off a bowl of something.

It’s probably the fish curry-equivalent, given how Rodney’s eyes are streaming and he’s sucking in air through his mouth. John grins as he hands over the beer. “Need a little help, there, buddy?”

Rodney grabs the mug with both hands and makes relieved gulping sounds as he drains the whole thing in one go. He gasps, “Yes, just what I needed!” He tips the mug up and shakes the last drop into his mouth. “Wow, they really don’t mess around with the hot stuff, Sheppard. My mouth is _still_ on fire.”

The sudden idea of finding out what those lingering spices taste like, their low burn cut with the sharper tang of ale being pressed into his own lips, settling on his own tongue completely monopolizes John’s attention for a moment. John blinks a few times as he tries to refocus.

Rodney seems to take no notice of the momentary lapse, however, as he jumps up and makes a beeline for the beer kegs. “We really need to get some for the mess hall!”

John chuckles because that’s just so Rodney — diving headlong into something that should be approached cautiously, then just as soon as he starts to recover, demanding more. Leaning against one of the pavilion’s support columns, John makes a mental note to talk with Teyla later.

Right now, she’s sitting with Mason and a passel of children as they all try to construct their own tower of rocks. There’s a lot of giggling and the occasional _oooh, ahhh_ like you’d expect to hear at a fireworks display, then the clunk and tumble of falling pebbles. They all seem to be having a surprisingly good time together.

Ronon’s hanging out with Mikkel, drinking and talking in low, easy tones. John watches other folks drift in and out of their conversation. He can’t tell from here if they’re discussing philosophy or beer or something else entirely, but there’s a mellow contentment to it that makes John smile again. It’s good to see Ronon genuinely at ease like this.

Even so, they probably should head back to the Jumper soon. That was another of the classic blunders he’d gleaned from diplomatic mission reports: overstaying. Linger too long and people’s common sense would dissolve in their cups, leading to fights and recriminations with an option on the whole religious rule/taboo breaking mess they’d so far managed to avoid. Knock on wood, etc.

John turns to see Teyla already walking toward him. Catching his eye, she tilts her head and he feels that surge of gratitude again. A nod later, the two of head over to where Jamiya is sitting with her family. By the time Teyla bids her a fond farewell and they press their foreheads together, the rest of the team are standing ready. Jamiya offers her hand to Mason, Ronon, and Rodney in turn, but when she faces John, she takes something small from her pocket and holds it out, quietly saying, “Here, Colonel Sheppard, this is for you.”

He automatically puts out an upturned hand to receive whatever it is, hoping that his smile is more appreciative than puzzled. She presses something warm and hard into his palm, gently closing his fingers over it, then murmurs, “A memento of what endures.”  Jamiya smiles kindly and steps back as John thanks her.

Then the team adjourns to the Jumper through the clear moonlight. Ronon and Rodney end up bickering over which local beer would go better with supposedly-chicken MREs, for some reason. Mason shuts them down by telling them they’re _both_ idiots if they willingly eat any kind of MRE without having a certain Czech scientist’s very unofficial, tastebud-stunning rotgut beforehand. Whereupon John turns to Teyla and comments how amazing it is that the sound of the river carries so far, completely drowning out every other sound. Oddly enough, though, he can still hear everyone snickering. He puts on his most oblivious smirk and looks up at the unfamiliar stars as they go along.

They arrive at the clearing and Rodney dutifully decloaks and unlocks the Jumper. While everyone is getting settled, it occurs to John that he should actually find out what he’s been carrying this whole time.  As he opens his hand, Rodney appears at his elbow, leaning over to peer at the dark chunk of glass tucked into John’s palm and saying, “Huh, that looks like a data crystal.”   

John wonders what’s on it and the Jumper helpfully flips up a small door on the main control panel, revealing a hexagonal port. It’s a tiny, but incontrovertible reminder that John regularly pilots an actual _telepathic spaceship_ — how cool is _that! —_ and while he manages not to crow with glee (because he’s a serious professional), it’s a near thing. Instead, he slots the crystal in place and a hologram appears.

Everyone crowds up together to see the completed rock tower hovering in midair, solid and graceful and astonishing, motion-blurred water below, distance-soft woodland behind, as the soft gurgle of the river whispers around them. After a few moments, the image starts dissolving into gently glowing motes of light that spread over everything.

As John flies his people back to Atlantis _—_ without incident, no less!  _—_ he thinks he might just understand what endures.

**Author's Note:**

> _For more of the artistry and philosophy of Stone Balance Art by Michael Grab, go to[Gravity Glue](https://www.gravityglue.com/). His work is genuinely awe-inspiring._


End file.
